The Red Scarf
by Kittie Darkhart
Summary: At a far corner of the world, a young woman stands on the edge of a cliff and contemplates the worn length of scarlet woven in between her fingertips.


Disclaimer: I own nothing from _The Phantom of the Opera_. The story, characters, etc. belong to Gaston Leroux.

Summary: At a far corner of the world, a young woman stands on the edge of a cliff and contemplates the worn length of scarlet woven in between her fingertips.

The Red Scarf

_Vadstena, Sweden_

_New Year's Eve, 1882_

_There was animosity between king Adils of Sweden and the Norwegian king Áli of Uppland. They decided to fight on the ice of Lake Vänern. Adils won and took his helmet, chainmail, and horse. _– Snorri, an excerpt from the _Skjöldunga saga._

…

On the edge of a cliff that overlooked a vast lake stood a young woman in a bright-red scarf. For as with every story that her beloved father had told her many years ago in her youth, it had to begin with such an exposition.

And so she gazed upon the wide expanse of the world before her, silently, as snowflakes fell, a few catching in the strands of her long dark hair. Winter had descended upon the land, leaving most of the surrounding village and forest as a landscape covered in ice and snow. Only the waters below remained untouched, a vibrant blue against a land otherwise devoid of color.

Gray skies cast a dreary pall over the village, and yet the light and warmth of each home fought off the cold that would otherwise quench the love and laughter as children played in the streets.

The woman watched them throw snowballs at one another, as a cold north wind lapped hungrily at her scarf. Icy fingers tried to claim it, but she held it close, as a hint of a smile played the corners of her mouth. Faintly she recalled the many times she herself had gone out to play as a child, with the scarf firmly tied around her neck. It was almost a childhood friend to her, for she had but only one doll and very little else to call her own.

Being a child with a newly deceased mother and no surviving siblings, she had a father who, in his grief, took to the road as they left their home behind. Her father, who had once been an adequate violinist, made their livelihood as they traveled from fair to fair and from village to village, in order to play his violin. And so, with their itinerant life, she was unable to forge any lasting friendships with other children. Her father was her very world, and her scarf, a dear friend.

As such, it was one of her most prized possessions—a gift from her late father—that she valued above all else. For even though it was but a simple scarf, made of thick wool and knitted by the wife of a glove maker, the wind was envious of it. It had made a claim on it once before, one winter's day by the seaside in Perros.

The woman watched it waft amidst the trees, a devious little dervish of air and dried leaves. She wove her fingers in between the scarf's scarlet length. The wind would not make a claim on it again—especially now, since it was bound by a small gold brooch at its center.

For like the scarf, the brooch had been a gift—a token of affection from her husband—that she only just received at Christmas. She looked upon it, and admired the onyx stone in its center. It had been too much for him to afford; but her husband, kindhearted as he was, would hear nothing of returning it to the jeweler.

"_It will keep your scarf safe,"_ he declared when he pinned the brooch to its woolen length, and she had been hard-pressed to counter his claim. For the brooch was indeed lovely, and had kept her scarf safe.

Even now, as the wind wailed around her and tried once again to abscond with it, the scarf remained, duly protected by the brooch and her fingertips.

"You shan't have it," she whispered in protest, and shuddered when she felt the wind's bitter response. Its touch was as cold as death, a familiar caress from long ago, as the wind left her to bitterly reminisce upon memories she dare not dwell on.

Instead she glanced once more upon the lake.

"_It was the sight of many a great of battle,"_ her father once said, when they passed through the village. _"Many men died when the lake but a sheet of ice."_

For indeed, Lake Vänern had its share of heroism and tragedy as the fate of kings and pawns was decided on its icy surface. It was said that even the legendary king of the Geats had aided the rightful heir, Eadgils, in reclaiming the Swedish throne from a treacherous, usurping uncle.

Her father told her many stories, both of shadow and light, and she, being but a child, was rapt in the rich tapestry of his words. Of his stories, her favorite had always been of that of a girl named Little Lotte who had naught but her doll, her voice, and her angel of music.

She stilled at the thought as the wind pulled at her scarf once more.

_You cannot sing as once did_, the wind seemed to say in an acrid whisper. _It was stolen from you._

The woman ignored it, however, as she once again thought of her father and the lake below. It had been nearly a year since she'd returned to her homeland. After fifteen years of travelling like a nomadic gypsy, she had finally returned to the land of her forefathers.

Thoughts of her other life that had basked in the golden splendor of Paris dimmed poorly in comparison to the life she presently had. Her other life was everything her father could have wanted for her; and yet, as she stood in silence amidst the wind and snow, she knew that he never could have imagined the nightmare that would inevitably come with such a flamboyantly serendipitous life. She had traded her voice in order to escape from it.

It had been a fair trade.

For to live in a fairytale that promised beauty and fortune, yet was bathed in shadows that shut out the light of day was worth the forfeit of her voice.

She would never again return to Paris.

The small band of gold that encircled her left ring-finger attested to that. She would live the rest of her life in the small, brightly-lit confines of a cottage that her husband had purchased for them and her surrogate mother. Mamma Valérius had been so overjoyed with a promise to return to the village of her birth that she contacted an old friend who found them a cottage in which they might live.

The price had been reasonable, according to her husband, who once had a king's ransom at his disposal.

Though no more.

He had relinquished that monetary comfort as he desired to live as a common man might. Being a son of a nobleman, he was naturally entitled to keep what fortune was bequeathed him; and perhaps he would have, had the circumstances surrounding his elder brother's unfortunate death not implicated him in his alleged complicity in the crime.

Raoul was innocent, of course; for no two brothers were as close and affectionate as he and Philippe had been. Their sisters, conversely, were rather different as they revoked what claim Raoul had to the family title and fortune upon their brother's death. Philippe's death had unquestionably been a murder; and with the threat of a scandal and an inquest made by the Paris police, Raoul barely had enough to purchase three railway tickets, let alone the cottage. The rest of their possessions had been bought by the money he made under the employment of a local merchant.

The three of them lived simply as she and Mamma Valérius knitted scarves and quilted blankets to the shop in which Raoul worked. They had barely enough to survive on.

She frowned at the thought. Raoul had given up everything for her—for the little girl whose scarf he'd once saved from the sea. He had been the one to retrieve it from the greedy wind, as it was his brooch that held it presently.

"_Mademoiselle, I'm the little boy who went into the sea to retrieve your scarf,"_ he had said upon their unforeseen reunion, and she smiled fondly at the memory of him kneeling so devotedly at her side.

At the time, she recalled have laughed in his face and the hurt he had expressed. It was a pretense, certainly, but she could not allow him to take her in his arms and relive the long history that they shared. They could not, for another had been watching from the shadows.

"_The angels wept tonight."_

She inwardly felt herself grow cold at the memory of those poignant words. Full of honeyed lies that belayed the covetous possessiveness of a miser underneath, as every compliment and praise had drawn her in like a moth to the flame. And she had been burned by the beauty of that voice. Of that voice that claimed to be an angel of music.

The voice left her utterly broken.

She was but a hollow shell of herself, especially after that night in which she'd become betrothed to the living personification of death. And yet, as she contemplated the still waters where a siren was claimed to dwell below, she found herself unable to hate him. She feared him, yes, as she still feared the peril of being entranced by his voice.

Given the choice, she decided the fates of all and chose the scorpion over the grasshopper.

Life over death.

Marriage without love.

She had been a bride for one already dead.

And yet, death had only claimed her in the few moments that altered her fate. Glancing down once more at her ring, she recalled her promise. The ring in which she presently wore had been purchased by her living husband, while the ring that had once claimed her finger now lay with her dead husband.

And so, as with the conclusion her own fairytale, Christine Daaé would forever belong to Erik, whilst Christine de Chagny would forever belong to Raoul, a former comte and heir to an esteemed noble French family. It was the end of a ghost's love story; and she imagined, the end of hers.

For as she stood on the eve of a new year, she considered her past, present, and the future that lay beyond the mountains. She would never sing in the way Erik had wanted; that voice had accompanied him in his shallow grave by the well. No, the voice in which she presently possessed remained as she sung a Swedish melody under her breath.

She was unaware when her voice rose from its stilted confines, seemingly of its own accord, as it echoed in the mountains beyond, forever imprinted on the stony monuments that retained their silence.

And yet, Christine continued to sing, deaf to beauty of the sound emanating from within as she bid a sad farewell to the present—though perhaps more so to the one who lay enshrouded in another land.

Christine would never again visit his grave.

In what time she had left in the world, she would think of him as the living man he desired to be. She would live for both of them, as she made her way without him in the world. However, as she stood on the precipice's edge, she found herself whispering a promise to return there and sing on this day, every year.

_It is what he would want_, she thought quietly. _It is all I have left to give him._

Thus, insomuch as the gift she gave—a small trifle, yet precious all the same—it would never be enough to return an angel to life; for as with all things material, everything had an end, even a year of time.

The faint sound of her voice echoed in the distance, yet she did not hear it, lost in her thoughts until she felt a pair of arms encircle her. A pair of arms that offered warmth and a home with windows that let in the light of day. And Christine smiled, in spite of her sorrow.

Turning to face her husband, she considered the man who held her, taking in his golden hair and gaping smile. His crooked teeth were the only feature that detracted from the bronzed perfection of his face. But then, Christine adored his teeth, treasuring the perfected beauty that imperfect smile offered so lovingly before it claimed a kiss from her.

"You followed me, all the way up here?" she mused when they finally broke apart.

Raoul merely shrugged. "I confess you startled me when I came home from the merchant's and Mamma Valérius said that you had not told her where you intended to go." He waggled a half-scolding finger at her. "She believed you went into the village, but I _knew_ better. The scarf was missing from its hanger," he added with a knowing wink.

Christine smiled in return. "Ever the little boy who goes in search of whether or not I lost my scarf."

"You do have a tendency to lose it," he remarked as he considered its worn length between his fingertips before resting over the small brooch. "You do like it, though? The brooch, I mean?" he asked, almost like the uncertain little boy he once was. "I chose well?"

She hesitated purposely, making him wait unnecessarily. "As you know, I _do_ have a fondness for blue stones, but I suppose the black will have to do."

Raoul's smile fell. "You would rather have something in blue, something that matches the color your eyes?" he asked. "Of course. Blue is your favorite color. How foolish of me," he scolded himself, but Christine batted his self-reproach away.

"I was merely teasing you, my love," she said. "I love the color, just as I love the one who chose it. You chose what I would have chosen, had I a mind to purchase it for myself."

"But you would not have purchased it, even if you had a mind to," he reminded her, as he once again touched it. "It looks lovely on the scarf, as if it belongs there."

A soft toll of the church bell rang in the distance as it noted the hour of seven. Only five hours were left before a new year would take the present one's place. Christine decided to spend those handful of precious hours with Raoul; she had given the rest of the day to Erik, after all.

And so they stood there, overlooking the land and village they now called home, as they would share another year together after so many spent apart.

Neither noticed the wind as it tried in a final attempt to reclaim the scarf, for the brooch and Raoul's hands kept it in place, holding onto it as he once had for the little girl whose heart he had lost his own to by the sea so long ago.

…

**Author's Note: I confess that it's been quite some time since I've written anything **_**Phantomy**_**, and I must say that it's nice to be able to return as I conclude the year with a story from my favorite novel.**

**And now, for a few things…**

**The excerpt in the opening is from a Norse saga that, for the most part, is lost to history. The surviving segments were translated in Latin by ****Arngrímur Jónsson, who was a fifteenth century Icelandic scholar. From my understanding, the **_**Skjöldunga saga **_**focuses on the Danish dynasty of the ****Scyldings, who feature prominently in **_**Beowulf**_**.**

**As such, that leads me to another thing. The king of the Geats that Christine refers to is indeed Beowulf, if anyone guessed it. As for the battle on Lake ****Vänern, many literary scholars have long suspected that the lake **_**Beowulf**_** refers to was, in fact, Lake Vänern. Lake Vattern is the other possibilty; however, with the latter being smaller in comparison, many believe it to be the former mentioned in the epic poem.**

**Background music that inspired this story was from Delilah's "Inside My Love," Snow Patrol's "Make This Go On Forever," and The Killers' "Miss Atomic Bomb." Quite the eclectic combination, to be sure! ;)**

**Regarding the version I used for the novel's flashback quotes, I had to depend on the Leonard Wolf translation, as my copy of Mireille Ribière's translation has unfortunately been misplaced at the moment. (Sighs.)**

**However, in spite of my absentmindedly misplacing books that are near and dear to me, it's good to return after a very long tenure at college, as I shall finally, officially, return to writing in the summer. I am already looking forward to June.**

**Anyway, I hope everyone enjoyed the story. I understand it's mainly a vignette that focuses on Christine, but I also wanted to include Raoul and Erik—in some small form, at least. But again, I hope everyone enjoyed it as I fondly conclude 2014 with a story that focuses on the ending of one story and the beginning of another for our favorite trio…**

**Happy New Year!**

— **Kittie **


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